"The Fish Journal"
Issaquah Press, Published August 5, 2009

By Dallas
Cross

Before
my father passed away three years ago at age 100,
I called him
in Sequim and proposed that we take a nostalgic trip to Idaho and visit
some of the places we had fished over a half century earlier. He
enthusiastically agreed and we planned to include the Henry's Fork of
the Snake River
and Williams Lake in our trip out, and stop at SilverCreek and the Wood
River on our return.I picked him up
from a shuttle van to stay
overnight
before a long
drive the next day. He was eager and had his fly rod and suitcase ready
to
travel. We set forth on I-90 and as we crossed the narrow panhandle of
Idaho
Dad confessed to me that a couple of days earlier he had fallen and
cracked
his tailbone. This explained why he brought an inflatable doughnut to
sit
on. We arrived the next day at Last Chance, Idaho where I had reserved
a
motel and fishing guide service.

In
the morning we set out to drift the Box Canyon stretch, a branch of
the Henry's Fork that originates at the dam-controlled outlet of
Henry's
Lake. Sitting on the doughnut in the guide's drift boat he could still
skillfully cast the dry, hopper fly with a bead-head, prince nymph
plying the bottom beneath it. Unfortunately the keepers of the dam
reduced the flow right after we launched and the trout we were seeking
dived under their moss
beds.

The guide got out
of the boat and held on to it to
keep
dad fishing in promising water. Finally success. Dad hooked and brought
to net a nice
rainbow trout after a struggle through which he grimaced, alternating
expressions between excitement and butt pain. I admired the trout as he
released it
and heard him say, "When you get really big I'll come back for you."
The
guide looked at me over his sunglasses and I could hear his thoughts
muttering, "That fish had better grow fast because this guy is 97 years
old." The
next day we departed and drove to Salmon, Idaho.

Virgil Cross catching his
last trout on Henry's Fork

As a youth I looked forward
every August to our
fly
fishing and camping trip at Williams Lake, near Salmon. Dad and I
especially wanted to
re-visit the lake because of the memories of fishing there with his
father, my brother, and uncle, all now deceased.

Then the best way to
get
to
the lake was by ferrying
people, supplies
and gear across the Salmon River on an overhead cable car. The owners
of a ranch near the outlet creek to the lake would meet us and load our
gear
on pack horses. We would all mount horses and it took the rest of the
morning
to trail our caravan up some-thousand feet of altitude to the lake.

An ancient landslide
created a dam across the canyon and Williams Lake
is backed up behind it. Amazingly the ranchers had horse-packed several
row boats up to the lake shore. There we loaded ourselves, a bird dog
and
all the gear into two of them. It was a long row, with regular stops
for
bailing, to a campground at the upper end of the lake. We made camp and
caught lively, fat rainbow trout mostly on flies that imitate the
abundant
fresh water shrimp in the lake.

Knowing
that a road had
since been built to the lake and that there
were boats for rent at the marina, I called the Williams Lake Resort
and was
told the entire complex had been recently purchased and made part of an
expensive guest ranch. Their boats were now only available for use by
guests. After I explained the purpose of our request the manager
relented. He
offered a boat in the morning with a warmed up engine at no charge to a
couple of
old guys fishing more for memories than trout.

Motoring
slowly we
cruised the shoreline remembering
fish caught,
nearly sinking in a storm and a trout grandfather hooked that jumped
completely over the boat. We beached at our old campground and
pleasantly found
that it was relatively unchanged. The slanting boulder where many pans
and
coffee cups had fallen off was still there. We quietly sat on a log
looking at
the dark cliffs meeting the water where the first sign of feeding fish
had brought cries of, "They are jumping," initiating a rush to the
boats.
Those were good times with happy memories.

Dallas at
Williams Lake Campground

Around
the rest of the lake there were now many summer
cabins and the residents had lowered the lake level to reduce winter
ice damage to their buildings. At the upper end a muddy lake bottom was
now
exposed.before it had been a shallow bay sheltering tadpoles, juvenile
trout and their
food sources.

On the way
back to the
dock I caught only one trout.
After I released
it dad said, "That's it." I knew he was disheartened with the changes
and
was hurting. It was time to head directly for home forgoing fishing in
Silver Creek and
Wood River.
Dad never fished again. The image of him catching
his last trout in Henry's Fork is not only in my photograph album, but
also graphic in my remembrance of our family's many good times with
fish.